No Cutting In Line
by Of Fans And Flames
Summary: Troy's biggest adventure begins after a slug from a .45 scrambles his brain.  He has been sentenced to purgatory - a land of understaffed workers, hopeless bureaucracy, and exploding fax machines.  One inch short of damnation, how will Troy survive?
1. Prologue

My name is Troy, and I'm going to tell you about a fix I got into a while back. My life was never anything extraordinary. No, my real story began the day I died.

My icy stomach flipped as my brows cried sweat. Not sure if my knuckles or my face was whiter. This had been as trivial of an errand as any. Who would have known that dropping my eggs would lead to this? But isn't that how it always is... It's the tiny things that sneak up on you and change everything.

"Don't you fucking move, you hear me?"

The gravelly Irish accent ordered me as the metal barrel jarred my skull vindictively. I saw nothing of my assailant, save for his bearish glove clawing into my shoulder.

My winter coat trembled in my periphery, and a queasy heartbeat throbbed from my gut to my toes. Soap... The checkout area smelled like soap.

Someone was running. My eyes flashed open as I realized that they had been clamped shut. A large man rampaged towards us. He was probably on the football team in high school. Hot dog buns, two for three dollars. The ad hung in at two o'clock, dull white and blue, shouting that I should, no, _needed _to buy this marvelous item.

The quarterback shouted, "You let him go, you bastard!"

A click, and the bullet pierced my skull like a nail-gun through paper. The bullet snapped and twisted, shoving grey matter aside like spoiled apple sauce. Blunt force knocked me aside, the world neon and bubbling. For just a split second, an unimaginable pain roared in my brain. Then the silence of outer space.


	2. Orientation

I'd been sitting in a chair as stiff as a wood plank for what felt like days. Possibly weeks. Joints I hadn't even been aware of were crying for relief, and the room smelled of Lysol. My tab said "E9732." When I first sat down, they were calling off E27. The clock read 3:30. There had been so many 3:30's since then that I lost count. The ink had deteriorated from all the times I'd bent, crinkled, and straightened the small sheet.

The room was filled with thousands of chairs, lined up neatly like soldiers. I squinted, hoping for a glimpse of a wall. The room, enormous and looming, seemed to be infinite, save for the restricting plaster on the horizon. That distant plaster comforted me. Otherwise, that sea of chairs could've been the size of a universe, and I wouldn't have been the wiser. The frail woman with the large nose to my left was E9731. The grouchy and unkempt man to my right was E9733.

I hadn't eaten, slept, or pissed since I got there, nor did I feel any need to. I hadn't spoken a single word. From time to time, a nauseatingly saccharine recording would announce, "Welcome to the Purgatory Orientation waiting room. Please remain silent. Any speaking will result in a revocation of your purgatory visa status, and deportation to the underworld. We do appreciate your patience."

Some did fuss about the wait, complain about the chairs, or even try to make small talk with a neighbor... They disappeared. Literally. They vanished, like a power outage offs a lightbulb. One can only imagine where to. Yet no one seemed to care.

At last, they called the three of us: the woman on my left, myself, and the man on my right. The lot of us almost fell down when we stood, knees weak from disuse. We walked into the proper room, and I began to feel something similar to what I'd felt that day I was shot. Bubbling dread, anxiety, fear... What waited for us behind that door? How could the others look so calm?

We took three chairs. The room was white, with a white tile floor to match and fluorescent lights which conjured up migraines with their piercing light. A woman with a rippling double chin and grey garb looked up at us flatly.

"Sorry about the slight wait. We've been understaffed lately. You're free to talk now."

"Where am I?"

It was a simple question, but it had consumed me for days. The turkey behind the desk grinned knowingly.

"This is purgatory. You're a soul to be tested."

"Purgatory? I...don't understand. Why didn't I go to heaven?"

"You didn't believe in God."

"But I _did_ believe in God. That's why I belong in heaven!"

One caterpillar brow arched. I wasn't normally so hot-blooded, but this was a special occasion.

"Then you must have believed in the wrong one."

My veins pumped ice as I shouted at the woman, wanting to grab her blubbery neck in my hands and shake the life out of it.

"So what is this, a guessing game? I've lived my entire _life _in dedication! This is bullshit!"

"Sir, I am _not_ speaking to you if you're going to use that tone of voice."

I stared at her, fuming, until I gathered the willpower to calm myself. I spoke through clenched teeth.

"Well then, if I'm going to purgatory for getting God's name wrong, who was the correct god?"

"God."

"I'm asking you _which_ god."

She leaned forward, speaking slowly to me as if I were just ignorant.

"God."

I stared back incredulously.

"But I _believed_ in God!"

"The real God is a little like your own. He created everything in the physical world and is omniscient and omnipotent. But that's where the similarities stop. We're through discussing this."

"No. Absolutely not. Who had it right? The Muslims? The Jews? ...The Mormons?"

"That's _enough_, sir."

Her voice menaced, and I then remembered clearly what had happened in the waiting room. I became quiet.

"For identification purposes, please state your name and cause of death."

The clerk nodded at E9731.

"Marjory Stewart Baxter. I had a fainting spell and woke up here."

The worker indifferently checked a box on a long white form. Moving to the next, she awaited my response.

"Troy Jonathan Fisher. I was shot in the head."

Check.

"Yancy Jacob Strobel. I was mowed down by the cops."

The voice was deep, familiar, and notably Irish.

"You son of a bitch!"

My chair crashed into the wall as I charged at E9733, who only smirked.

"You _killed_ me, you smug piece of shit! I'll rip your jaw off!"

I no longer saw the room around me, felt the chill in the air, or noticed the reek of disinfectant. The only thing I saw was his ruddy and satisfied face.

"You hadn't realized that the man sitting next to you for weeks was your murderer? You Americans... So slow."

"Sir! I will tell you this third and _last_ time to calm down. I will _not_ warn you again. You will be deported."

"What are you going to do, send me to hell? I don't give a shit. I want to _kill_ this punk!"

I'd always been an even-tempered sort of guy, but this... This had me all but undone. E9731 jabbed me.

"Don't be an idiot. _Kill_ him? Do you realize where you are? Don't you remember what you saw in the waiting room? "

Still facing my murderer, my mouth opened in a silent roar. But the woman was right. She had become my voice of reason. I righted my seat, body numbed in shock. I had spent days, no, weeks, beside the man who murdered me, without a clue. And what's worse, I was killed by a man named _Yancy_. What kind of name is Yancy?

My breathing threatened to become either rapid, shallow pants or deep gasps at any moment. My fingers were tingling and clumsy. What was this nightmare? The turkey spoke again.

"I need to see each of your visas."

The woman to the left of me and the piece of shit to my right both handed over a small, gold card with their photograph on it. The turkey was impatient.

"Mr. Fisher, please hand me your visa."

"What? What visa are you talking about?"

"Your Purgatory visa."

"I don't have one."

The woman to my left gasped as dread crept up my throat.

The clerk responded in the same unsympathetic tone, "Without a visa, you will be deported."

"Deported? You mean... Sent to hell?"

"You could say that."

"You're sending me to hell for missing a damned piece of paper? No one ever told me about this! How was I supposed to know?"

I felt cold, slimy things entwining, squirming inside my stomach as panic flooded my thoughts. My voice of reason spoke again.

"No one ever told you? Everyone knows about this."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone knows it. They just never talk about it."

I stared, unable to believe the horrible sounds from those strange mouths. My murderer spoke snidely.

"You'd think, if you knew you were going to go somewhere your whole life, you'd at least be prepared."

"You. You shut the hell up!"

"Yeah, you're screwed."

I was going to hell, but my murderer's soul was saved. And this was supposed to be the justice of the universe?

"Sir, you have a five day grace period."

"So... There's hope?"

"Yes. You can apply for a visa there, but you better hurry. They close at 5, and the paperwork can take a while. You're done here."

I nodded as my body moved towards the door. I had become overwhelmed, and conscious thought stagnated. My hair had become unkempt, as tended to happen when I was upset.

"You'd better run."


	3. Welcome Home

Run? To fill out a form in five days? But I didn't question. Nothing made any damned sense around this place. I sprinted out the door, the sudden activity somehow reminding me that I wanted to cry. I couldn't, try as I might. And I then realized that there was a question I'd forgotten to ask. I was so worried about avoiding hell that I forgot to ask how to go to heaven.

The line in front of the visa office stretched for miles; it might as well have been the Great Wall of China. Why were all the boundaries in this place so obscure? It had been bad enough to barely glimpse the wall in the waiting room. I had to walk for an hour to even see the end of that horrific line. They gave me another numbered tab, to avoid cutting I suppose. I waited for hours, trying to make small talk with the people around me. None of them would have it. So I stood - alone, bored, and stiff. Before I even made it into the office, they closed for the night. But no one went home. The man in front of me told me that if I went home tonight, I'd never make it in tomorrow.

One would think I would have panicked, but I was done with that. Maybe you could say I was in denial. The night was long. I sat down in my place, hoping to curl up and find some rest. Or at least to escape my own mind and the horrible reality of this situation. I couldn't fall asleep. I'd been here for weeks, and I hadn't slept a wink. I was beginning to think it was impossible. The morning found me restless and bored. Sometime during the night, my cheek began to itch, and my throat got sore. It made me wish for the passion fruit tea I kept in my kitchen cupboard back home.

At several points while waiting in line, a few frantic souls dashed up.

"Please, _please_ let me in! My deadline's in an hour! They're going to deport me!"

I frowned. Really, you think they'd be on top of such a thing.

"They lost my paperwork. I'm begging you!"

Some of them attempted to hide into the queue, only to be pried out by stone-eyed security guards. They would panic and beg, though they could not cry it seemed. They didn't wail either. But, as the time until their deportation passed, there was a connection in their mind. Some made frantic attempts to shove people aside, hoping to make some mad, last-minute dash toward salvation. However, most realized that they could do nothing to save themselves, to prolong those precious few hours before their bodies were devoured by flames, torn to shreds, whatever happens down there. During duller hours, my mind would go back to their faces as the gravity of this horrible fact made itself known in their chests. Blank, grey eyes accepted the futility as something behind them died. However, I couldn't stifle the hint of dread, knowing that I could well become one of them.

I could save them, if I really wanted to. They said it was allowed. You can't cut, because what kind of order would that be? But you _can_ give someone your space. An honorable act, but I didn't see anyone doing it. Understandably so. It's a shame, but I was just too terrified by the idea of eternal hellfire to make the sacrifice. I didn't even want to risk it.

Despite this, I could not help but pity those poor souls. But this place wasn't a charity. It was nothing like the world I had left. No, this was far more primal, despite the sophistication of forms, waiting rooms, and turkey-necked employees. We tended to our own survival, which took our every moment. It was such a shame that reality had made us this way.

That day, I finally made it to the front desk. A man with thin wrists gave me a form to fill out, which was the size of a small textbook. I toiled over the form for hours, scribbling signatures, copying declaration statements, and scratching that bothersome itch on my cheek. When I finished, my hands were a cramped mess, but I submitted within the day's close. I waited another hour to hand it to a nasally man behind the desk. His brow twerked as I approached him.

"What's that on your face?"

"Something's on my face?"

"Yes, by your cheek. That's a nasty rash. You should get it looked at."

I scratched again, too frustrated to care about my skin.

"But I can't pay for that. I have no money."

"We offer free medical care to all purgatory residents. The hospital is a few miles west."

Finally, some good news. He stamped the forms.

"You should get your visa hold in the mail within 1-2 days. It will give you another 10 days to obtain a visa."

I nodded, so pleased that this nightmare was over with for now. It had been quite a journey to hear those words, and it was something I hoped I would never have to endure again. My thoughts were disrupted by a realization.

"I don't have a mailbox."

"Your mailbox is on the backside of the building. Wait in this line to get your key."

He pointed to another line, near to the same length as the one I had just waited in. I grimaced, rubbing my temples as I resigned myself.

By the next afternoon, I received my key. I sorted through the thousands of mailboxes, lined up flatly on the wall with no space between. Out of curiosity, I attempted to count my steps. I lost count after a few hundred thousand. My mind returned to the warm passion fruit tea in my cupboard, imagining how it would feel on my raspy throat. I finally arrived at my box. Opening it elicited an explosion of papers, as if they had been catapulted into my face. It was then that I finally saw the back of the mailbox.

The box was an enclave about a foot wide, a few inches tall, and a foot back. How such a small hole could fit so many papers I could not understand. Clearly, some natural law had been violated. I sifted through the mess on my knees, wishing they had come bound and paperback, like several encyclopedia volumes. They were advertisements. Advertisements for food, apartments, job ads… I took whatever I could carry as I left my now empty mailbox. Finally, I was done waiting in lines. I decided that it was time to find a place to live.

I wandered aimlessly until I found a tanned denizen with a bushy black beard.

"Excuse me, I'm new here and am looking for somewhere to stay. Do you know…uh… What's the procedure?"

He looked at me, seeming to find my statement too ridiculous to even comprehend.

"A place to live?"

"…Yes?"

What was wrong with this guy?

"Why would you need a place to live?"

Maybe _no one_ makes sense here. I stared.

"Why _wouldn't_ I need a place to live?"

He shook his head.

"Look, this isn't like being alive. I've been here for years, and everyone's homeless. We don't sleep, we don't eat, we don't rest, we don't work, we don't shit, we don't watch TV. We own nothing. So tell me, why do you need a place to live?"

Suddenly, I felt sick.

"But in my mailbox… There were ads for food and apartments and…"

I gestured to the papers, holding them like a child. I clutched my only evidence that this terrible life he had described was a lie.

"Oh, those? I still don't know why we all get ads. I think they're just messing with us."

I dropped the papers abruptly.

"What about a place to spend my spare time?"

He snickered.

"With all the paperwork they're having us do? Trust me, you'll be busy."

I had no response for him. He had described my future, my eternity. I had spent my life hoping and planning for an afterlife. I prayed that I'd be rewarded for my faith and kindness. Now, I wished that there wasn't one at all.

My body felt foreign and numb. The man looked at me sympathetically. He remembered how this felt and quietly walked away.


	4. Free Medical Care

I checked my mail the next day and was again greeted with the same burst of advertisements for things I could never have. The amount of spam that could generate in just one day was astounding. I journeyed to the hospital line, rubbing my aching knees as I waited. People didn't try to claw in line for the hospital as they did for the main office. After all, no one gets deported for not making it to the hospital in time.

I also noticed that no one in line for the hospital seemed critically ill. People would cough, complain of a sore throat, or wipe their noses. Some had an infection or a limp. It always seemed to be some low-grade illness - not strong enough to seriously endanger them but strong enough to be uncomfortable.

After one nightfall, I reached the front of the line - only to be told to return once I had a visa hold. It had been for nothing, but it's not as if I had anything else to do. On the second day, I found a golden piece of paper in my mailbox. It was my visa hold.

For now, I was safe from deportation. My spirit felt lighter. I waited in line for nearly two days to see the doctor. Upon reaching the front, I was sent away. The doctor was on vacation. I resented my loss of nearly three days in a failed attempt to get my sore throat and rash looked at. They told us that medical care was free. Anyone who called the medical care "free" had obviously never tried to get it.

I spent the following day attempting to exchange my visa hold for my final visa. The lines no longer shocked me; they had become routine, like a daily commute to work. The young clerk took me to the front after I'd completed the paperwork.

"I'm here to exchange my visa hold for a visa."

"Alright, Mr. Fisher. It will be delivered to your mailbox in 5-10 days."

I frowned, my voice becoming urgent.

"But my visa hold expires in 8 days. What if it doesn't come in time?"

He knit his brows.

"That's why it's incumbent upon you to submit your forms promptly."

I started to defend myself, but he interrupted, "You can always renew your visa hold."

I sighed.

"By the way, have you gotten your face looked at? You really should. We offer free medical care."


	5. Public Disturbance

There was little choice for me but to return to the hospital line. After two days, a nurse finally ushered me to the front desk.

"I apologize for the wait. We're horribly understaffed."

"I've waited in this line three times. I've stood here for almost a week."

"I do understand your frustration. We have nowhere near enough nurses and even fewer doctors."

I sighed, reminding myself that this was not her fault.

"I need to see your visa."

"I have this."

I handed her the gold paper.

"This will do. Let me run it through the system."

I waited for several minutes as I relaxed to the sound of fingers clacking against a keyboard. The nurse shook her head.

"Cause of death?"

"Shot in the head."

"Right... This isn't your visa hold."

I stared at her incredulously.

"..._What?_"

"This is for Troy M. Fisher. You're Troy J. Fisher."

I imagined all sorts of painful deaths for every clerk, cashier, or secretary I'd spoken to since I arrived at this wretched place. Who would've known that my common surname would bite me in the ass like this?

"You'd better go back to the main office and get the correct visa hold, or you'll be deported."

This couldn't be happening. I thought it was over with. I unconsciously smoothed my hair, which had mysteriously become frazzled during the long wait.

Noting the look of panic on my face, the nurse added, "I can fax over an appeal to the main office. Hopefully that will persuade them to give you an extension."

"Hopefully? This isn't my mistake!"

"I can't make any promises."

And I did spend the next two days waiting to get through at the main office, again watching others trying to pry into the line in desperation and soon after disappearing. I was beginning to understand how they felt. I spent the entire wait in fear.

"You gave me the wrong visa hold."

"Yes, Mr. Fisher. You went four days without a proper hold?"

I grew angry.

"Yes! Because you guys keep messing up!"

"You're a lucky man. I'm shocked you weren't deported."

I scoffed. How could he have the nerve to call me lucky?

"The hospital faxed an appeal."

The worker sifted through dozens of screens.

"No, we see no appeal here. You'll have to start the application process over again."

"No, I'm _positive_ it was faxed two days ago."

Realization dawned on the dim-witted clerk.

"Ah, right... Our fax machine spontaneously combusted that day."

"Do you think you're being funny?"

I leaned toward the counter combatively, ready to break his nose if he provoked me further.

"No, Mr. Fisher! This happens from time to time. They give us very cheap machines. One of our workers lost a finger!"

From time to time? I shook my head, either unwilling or unable to accept this lunacy. Even I didn't know which at this point.

"Fill out this form. You should get the correct hold in the mail in 1-2 days."

I finished that same small textbook I had completed the first day I arrived in purgatory. My every action since my death had been futile. Here I was, after days on the treadmill, exactly where I started. Actually, this was not true. I had gotten a mailbox key, after all.

After the hours I spent on this form, I returned to my mailbox. Again, ads for oven mitts, apartments, and office chairs spewed into my face. I closed and locked my mailbox door. There was a ruffling. I swear to god that I heard a ruffling.

I opened up the mailbox, and true to form, pounds of spam were projected upon me. I was on to something. I shoveled the spam outward of the mailbox in a hurried panic. I locked the mailbox shut. Opened it again. Pounds, and pounds of ads raged out in a waterfall. I shut it, and I opened it again. And again. My fingertips stung from my clumsy and rushed movements, cut and scraped. By the time I was satisfied, there was a pile of ads that came up to my waist.

I yelled and kicked the pile, spewing the contents about. To an outsider, I would look insane. But I was exacting very just revenge upon these papers. It wasn't just for clogging my mailbox. It was for everything I had endured since the day that bullet scrambled my brains. I shouted out my anger, until I heard a stern voice behind me.

"Sir, what do you think you're doing?"

I turned to find a stereotypically chubby man in a police uniform.

"That's quite a scene you were making."

There were cops down here? Of course...

"This is too rich..."

He scribbled into his notepad.

"Let me see your visa."

I sighed to shake some tension and gave him my visa hold.

"Mr. Fisher, I'm writing you a citation for public disturbance."

This damned place... Couldn't I even have a mental breakdown in peace? I again adjusted my hair, which had become messy in my fury. I rolled my eyes, which did not go unnoticed by the deputy.

"And another for littering."

My fingernails dug into my palm as I kept silent, taking care not to do anything that could be interpreted as disrespectful.

"You can file the paperwork to appeal this at the main office. Three active citations will get you deported."

Paperwork? More paperwork? I didn't want to admit to myself that my lip had just quivered as he handed me the two slips of paper.

"By the way, son, have you gotten that rash looked at?"


	6. A Place To Rest My Bones

And this is how I carried on (I can't honestly say lived) in purgatory. Months passed. I was becoming accustomed to this strange land of overstaffed workers, flooded mailboxes, and exploding fax machines. No one ever cries or laughs here. I tried doing both and found myself physically incapable in a way that I cannot explain. The sky is always cloudy, but it never rains.

I never did get rid of my rash and sore throat, though I might've if I could've had my passion fruit tea. I am always on the brink of sickness, which is a common situation among the purgatory folk. Some uncomfortable aching that I could never resolve. If I could only have the passion fruit tea in my cupboard back home, perhaps I would find relief. My sore throat constantly craved that tea.

One of the things I missed most was sleep. The long waits were wearing. I no longer got so frustrated when my paperwork was lost; it was expected. But it weighed on me in a way I didn't consciously realize. Even if your body doesn't need the rest, your mind... Sometimes you don't know how you have the mental stamina to even exist. But it wasn't all bad. It did give me more time to fill out my forms.

I scratched the rash on my cheek as I approached the desk of the main office. Today would be the day I received my permanent visa. I had faxed in my application form to all relevant departments in stacks. They'd even taken my picture to put on the card. I told myself that it was foolproof, but I knew better. Still, today would be the day. It just had to be.

I had gone from one visa hold extension to another. My paperwork had been lost, mislabeled, incinerated, self-destructed, stolen, and detonated. At one point it was allegedly destroyed by a pack of raccoons, though I had yet to see any animal in this place. However, I did recently resolve my citations for littering and being a public disturbance.

I still hadn't figured out how to get to heaven. Every time I asked, I was told to just focus on getting my visa for now. It was a miracle that I hadn't gotten deported yet. While I did have a few close calls, I had yet to become one of those frightened souls willing to give anything for a space in line.

It's well-known to any purgatory veteran that one can give a straggler their number slip, thus giving them their space in line. The rules for such a transfer were made clear to all of us, but it so rarely happened that no one paid attention. We had to look out for ourselves, because no one would do that for us. I had yet to experience kindness in this land. Any time I had, I kept.

The most important thing in purgatory is time. The fact that you have an eternity is irrelevant; it's never enough. Every minute is essential to your soul's survival. You can't afford to let someone cut in front of you, taking your valuable time. The lines are horrible, and the bureaucratic hiccups are endless. Starting over in the line could mean deportation if there were any hold ups. I would never risk this for a stranger.

My chest used to ache when I saw the stragglers disappear. While not so honorable as to sacrifice myself for them, I pitied their fate. But now they were just eyesores. They were depressing reminders of a grim reality that I did not care to consider, like bums in a park. I learned to ignore the stragglers, as the rest did. In fact, a small part of me had come to despise them. I was relieved when they'd finally disappear. I was not one of that kind.

After the standard wait, I reached the desk. They handed me a firm gold card with my picture on it. I felt alive again for just a moment as I accepted this staggering fact. It was undeniably, beyond a doubt, mine. My name was spelled correctly. The date of birth and death were both accurate. It was valid; the seals were officially imprinted and everything. I felt a relief, a joy that I had not experienced since I first arrived in this place. I was done. Finally, I was safe. I had escaped deportation and could finally rest my bones.

I ran my fingertips around the borders of the card, holding it tightly into my body. This card and I would be inseparable until Judgment Day, or whatever was supposed to happen. I would fight for it, and if need be, I would die for it all over again. And now that I had my visa, I could finally ask that burning question.

"Now that I have my visa, will you please tell me how to get to heaven?"

A large, dopey smile adorned my face, and the woman glanced back at me.

"Mr. Fisher, you'll be quite occupied with the reauthorizations. Just worry about that for now."

"What are reauthorizations?"

My happiness did not diminish. I was done. Nothing contrary could possibly be the case.

"Every five days, you have to reauthorize your visa. If you don't get in the paperwork by the deadline, your visa will be revoked."

She might has well stabbed my swelling joy with an ice pick.

"What... Why wasn't I told about this?"

"Does it matter?"

I stood in silence.

"Mr. Fisher, please fill out the following list of forms every three days. Failure to do so will result in deportation."

My hand quivered in shock as she set the long list on my palm.

I asked in a small voice, "When will I finally be done?"

"It's an ongoing process, Mr. Fisher. I'd recommend getting in line again immediately."


	7. Another God

I walked slowly and dejectedly back into the queue. Still, I would not give up. I'd never been anything impressive. I was never particularly smart, athletic, or attractive, even in life. But I did have one outstanding quality: I was strong-willed as all hell. I would fight for my existence, because hell was for the weak. I gathered the strength to face my future as I waited.

During the months I lived in purgatory, I had established a routine. It was best not to question this routine, or try to apply logic to my situation. I did what I was told. I was a mere automaton of the system, on a frantic treadmill one inch short of damnation. I told myself it was only temporary. I believed I could again think for myself, once I had finally gotten this damned visa. Today, I discovered that even this was a false hope.

The news had torn me out of my routine, and I was on the outside, critically evaluating my every action since I had died. "I'll think for myself later" was impossible. My appetite was now heartier than just surviving. What had I accomplished? After my first day of orientation, fear became my life, my morality, my god. Every move I had made was in its service. I wanted another god.

The night offered me perspective. Even without sleep, it had this power. But I still had no answer. I did not know who or what my new god would be. I just knew that I couldn't live like this anymore. There had to be something.

The stragglers returned to the line, panicking and pleading as they always did. But this time, I listened. I watched every single one of them as if it were my first time. I had existed for that same fear, doing anything I could to escape it. They were facing this fear, defenseless and futile. I understood their anguish.

They weren't the only futile ones. We were all fleeing an unimaginable fear without a single thought as to what the greater purpose was. We were, perhaps, attempting to delay the inevitable. I convinced myself that the stragglers and I were different. I had looked down upon them and averted my eyes. It saved me from thinking about the day I might become one of them. There was nothing preventing that from happening, and it scared the shit out of me.

I nervously watched the sun ascend through the thick clouds. This line had been a longer one, and my deadline was hours away. If I didn't make it to the desk within the next few hours, I would be deported. It was another close call, but I'd grown used to those. Still, I couldn't suppress the low hum of anxiety beneath the surface.

A straggler approached me. She was probably in her early twenties and slightly heavyset. She seemed so young. She had short brown hair, earnest eyes, and freckles. Her voice was high and strained, and you could hear the sickness in her voice. Her face was contorted, but true to form, she could not cry.

"Please. _Please_. Give me your space. I'm going... I'm going to be deported. Oh god, please."

I stared at the girl, my face expressionless. The security guards rushed in to pry her off.

"No! Please! _Please_!"

This place had no humanity. My life was miserable, and I had nothing to live for. I had yet to experience a speck of true and honest joy since I arrived. We all toiled, fought, and worried just for ourselves, yet we were only tools. So if this one, solitary act of kindness was the only I would see for the rest of eternity, so be it.

I held up a hand, shouting to the security guards.

"Wait, leave her alone."

They stepped away, the guards and the young girl looking just as confused as each other.

"What's your name?"

The girl stammered, "Ashley Stonter."

I gently took the girl's arm and pushed my numbered tab into her hand.

"You can have my space. Best of luck to you, Ashley."

Her face moved quickly from disbelief to joy. Pure joy.

"Oh god... Thank you. Thank you so much!"

Her arms embraced me tightly. I had not received as much as a handshake since I died, who knows how long ago. The hug felt strange, but it soothed my soul in a way I had missed for so long. This was humanity.

"You just saved me from... I don't even know what. Thank you."

I rolled my eyes.

"Hey, I just gave you a spot in line."

Maybe that came off a bit corny, but I thought it was cool at the time. A smile beamed back at me as I walked away, and for a second I felt like a hero. The faces in the queue gawked openly. Let them stare. This was my last noteworthy moment until I faced the fires of hell.

I sat against the outside wall of the main office, leaning back as I did when I would smoke a cigarette in my youth. The line snaked aimlessly. Every time I had come here, I was in a rush. I was always frantically doing something that amounted to nothing. This was the first time I felt like I'd really gotten anything done, and now was my time to rest. I can't say that I did not fear hell. In fact, I was terrified. But as my body vanished, I felt no regret.


	8. A Soul To Be Tested

My next sensation was a warm glow on my skin. Evidently, the flames in hell didn't live up to the hype. When my eyes opened, I was lying on my back. I shielded my eyes from the sun, finding myself resting on a wooden bench in a park I had frequented as a child. The park was flattened and replaced with office buildings decades ago, yet there it stood.

There were others roaming the park. Children were playing on the jungle gyms, owners were walking their dogs, and there was an undeniable sound that had become so foreign to me. People were laughing.

An unassuming man was sitting behind a beverage stand. He wore a red uniform shirt and had wrinkles in the crease of his eyes.

"Troy, come over here."

I wandered up, in total confusion. He was the first person to address me by my first name since I died.

"What'll it be?"

"Passion fruit tea."

What was happening to me? Was I hallucinating? Is this some sort of mind trick? Maybe they were just messing with me again, just like they did with all the advertisements in my mailbox.

But the cashier handed me a tall glass of tea. I sipped it, and it quenched my thirst. It tasted just like the passion fruit tea I kept in my cupboard back home.

"Where am I?"

The man smiled.

"Do you remember the first thing they told you in purgatory?"

I shook my head.

"I have no idea. They told me so many things that I never could set them straight."

"I believe they said, 'You're a soul to be tested.'"

I gaped at the man, barely avoiding dropping my tea.

"Troy, you passed your test."

My mind returned to Ashley's grateful face.

"I'm not going to hell?"

Relief saturated my voice.

"You _were_ in hell."

"What? No, I was in purgatory."

The man chuckled.

"There's no such thing as purgatory, and even if there were, it would never deal with that kind of red tape."

My mind traveled too quickly for me to respond. I couldn't allow myself to accept this. It was too good to be true.

"Yeah, that was hell alright. Wasn't it miserable? I thought we did a great job of it."

I didn't realize that I had started laughing. I bent over, guffawing over the irony of the situation until my eyes watered. At that point, I didn't know whether I was laughing or crying. All I knew is that I had never felt such a relief, in life or in death.

I had been expecting some big show, a dramatic moment of truth with fire and chariots that decided whether my soul would soar with angels or writhe in flames. Hell, I think that's what all of us were expecting. Everyone wanted that second chance. Yet there were second chances by the minute, passing us by as we searched for our defining moment of heroism. I had dozens of second chances a day. I was the only one keeping myself from heaven.

"I think you'll come to like it here, Troy. There's so much for you to see and experience. And by the way, the tea is on the house."

I gave the man a nod and a thank you, venturing to find out for myself.


End file.
